


Replete

by APgeeksout



Category: Sunless Sea
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, F/F, Food Porn, POV Second Person, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: There are so many stories you have saved up for her in your time away, and you dole them out morsel by morsel - a mask with a frog’s face; industrious postal rats; soul-hungry apes; a city of mirrors - as she does the same with the foods she’s laid in to the pantry of your townhouse in your absence.





	Replete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snickfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/gifts).



The taste of the zzoup - rot-sweet and brimstone-bitter both at once - lingers still at the back of your throat when you step onto the weatherbeaten planks of the dock. Does she taste it on your tongue when she pulls you down into the kiss you’ve waited four score of sunless days and nights for? Does she wonder what manner of strange catch and stranger flesh has passed your lips in the meantime?

“This just won’t do,” she clucks, and her questing hands insinuate beneath your battered grey overcoat to slide warmly down your flanks and into the gap at the waist of your pants. “No Captain of mine will waste away.”

Home again with your own Likely Lass, you wash from your skin and hair a rime of salt and a film of engine oil, and by the time you reemerge in a gown of red velvet - stained, and old enough to be a bit outgrown, the waistline just a touch snug, even around your somewhat diminished midsection - she awaits you at the hearth with a picnic feast arranged upon the thick rug in the dancing firelight.

There are so many stories you have saved up for her in your time away, and you dole them out morsel by morsel - a mask with a frog’s face; industrious postal rats; soul-hungry apes; a city of mirrors - as she does the same with the foods she’s laid in to the pantry of your townhouse in your absence. A tiny cup of bold coffee. A hunk of crusty bread spread thick with prisoners honey and preserves made of some fruit that leaves your mouth tingling. A wedge of mild, herb-studded cheese carried down from the surface. A bowl of broth rich and earthy with mushrooms. A glass of wine of a far better vintage than the one you keep in your ship’s stores. Another. Bitter greens tossed in vinegar. Grains of something not quite rice cooked in a thick sauce of spices simultaneously hot and sweet. Bite-size cuts of fish, fresh from the zee, bright and raw in their wrappings of the green-black vegetation that mats the surface of the zee over the Fathomking’s Hold. Red meat - cooked rare and sliced from a roast in thin red slivers that she presses past your lips bite after bite. A snifter of brandy that burns your throat on the way down to roil in your overfull stomach. Stewed cherries, their tartness bursting on your tongue. A succession of small cakes, sticky with spore toffee and glazed with more honey - not so much as to send you immediately into a dream, but enough to make your limbs feel loose and light even as your belly strains and stretches at the front of your too-tight dress. Enough to make her touch buzz all the way through you when she rubs an appreciative palm over the fabric that hugs your distended shape.

You fall back against the rug with a sated moan, feeling rounded out by the decadent food and her doting attention, after so many nights lying empty under the false stars without either.

“Could you take any more, my love?” she asks, her other hand dropping from the corner of your sticky mouth to the bodice of your dress to tease against the stark nub there, standing against the fabric even more prominently than the freshly-ample belly below it. The sharp bolt of arousal draws your mind away from how heavy and impossibly full you are. She shifts to hitch both your skirt and her own out of the way, and settles down to straddle your thigh with her own, the core of her sliding hot and slick against your skin as she rocks her hips, her fingers pressing into your soft, stuffed stomach with every stroke.

She pushes another fold of skirt out of her way, and then her fingers are on you, once again admiring your full, swollen skin and pressing sweetly past your lips. Any discomfort the gorging might have given you burns away even quicker than the brandy, as she bends over you to mouth at your breasts through the dress, even as she rides after her own release against your slickened thigh. She pulses against you and smothers her cry into your chest.

She does not pause nor draw away from you then. You feel your cheeks must be as red as the velvet of your dress, heat building in you as her mouth plays over you as though she were starving, despite the plentiful food still spread all about. Her fingers curl and dip and tease until you shake and shudder and cry out beneath her.

She smiles indulgently down at you, and when you’ve had a bare moment to catch your breath, she takes her hand from beneath your disheveled skirt and raises glistening fingers to swipe across your bottom lip. When you take them into your mouth, you taste the lingering traces of the honey clinging to the creases of your lips blending into your own salt taste, not wholly unlike the zee.

“Now that you’ve come back home to me,” she says, curving her other hand over the mound of your overtaxed stomach - low where your muscles still quiver and jump with exertion and edging lower still toward the place where you ache for her to fill you up again - “we shall both eat our fill.”


End file.
